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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250915">What Could I Say To You (Except I Love You)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre'>NoelleAngelFyre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Confrontations, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Episode: s01e07 Marooned, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Healing Sex, Heart-to-Heart Conversations, History of relationship, Hopeful Ending, Love Confessions, Male Friendship, Mick Rory Defense Squad, Multi, Partners in Crime, Protective Caitlin Snow, References to Child Abuse, References to Past Child Abuse, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Secret Relationship, Team Dynamics, True Love, coldflash - Freeform, effects of time travel, healing touch, killerwave, partners, references to past events/prior episodes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:35:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Not sure they’re going to make it upstairs.” Leonard remarks, albeit softly.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>From the front, fingers hook into the belt loops of Leonard’s denim and a pair of hazel eyes glitter in a way that his stomach performs a gentle flip.  The look in Barry’s eyes, the smirk on his young face, the humble scent of his soap…this is familiarity.  This is home.  As close to home as he, or Mick, ever really come.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>“Probably not.” Barry answers; his fingers tighten in the belt loops and Leonard grips his shoulders in full awareness of what’s about to come, “But we will.”</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>--------------------------------------------------------------------</p>
<p>Leonard Snart told the other Legends he would 'take care of' Mick, but not in the way they think.  For once, his head is clear, and in the wake of some uncomfortable revelations, it's time to go home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Leonard Snart &amp; Mick Rory, Mick Rory/Caitlin Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>145</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Team</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, I sat on this one since last year just so I could post it for Valentine's month.  Call me a sap.  ;)</p>
<p>This is the first but not the last piece which will somehow incorporate my need to unwrite the travesties committed against Leonard Snart and Mick Rory's friendship/partnership in LoT.  In terms of plot (little as there is to be found here), this maintains canon events in LoT up to the end of "Marooned".  After that, the rest of LoT season one can go fly off a cliff.</p>
<p>Please review the tags, as I tried to give a general idea of what to expect here.  Tags will be added along with chapters.  Expect one chapter a week for the month of February.</p>
<p>Title: "Lucky" by Bif Naked.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: I own nothing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>I’ll take care of it.</em>
</p>
<p>Let this day be documented as momentous and worthy of mention: Leonard Snart wasn’t lying.  For once.  He told the others he would take care of it, take care of what Rip has elected as their next great crisis, and he meant it.  Stated as much in such a factual manner, no room for argument or compromise, that Rip didn’t even think twice about handing over the Jumpship.</p>
<p>He meant it, that he would take care of it.  He just didn’t specify <em>how</em> he would take care of it.</p>
<p>Behind him, Leonard can hear the telling grunt of Mick finally being dragged from unconsciousness and back into the land of the living.  Instinct being what it is, his partner jerks against the restraints holding him in place for a couple minutes – then apparently registers that the release is within easy reach and equally easy to work with a simple press of the fingers.</p>
<p>The restraints – essentially the equivalent to a seatbelt – pop free with an audible <em>snap</em>. “The hell you taking me now, Snart?”</p>
<p><em>Snart.</em>  Not Len.  Not even Leonard.  Thirty-plus years of partnership, fights, and friendship, and a series of poor decisions and even worse reactions on Leonard’s part have been thrown back at him in that one single word: Snart.  His bastard father’s name.  It’s one thing to hear the cops – hypocritical seekers of truth and justice who sat by and did nothing while Lewis Snart beat his kids halfway to hell – use it while snapping the cuffs around Leonard’s wrists and tossing him in the clink.  It’s an entirely different issue to hear his partner use it, as much a curse as anything else.</p>
<p>“What happened, Mick?”</p>
<p>Stony silence greets him for that question.  Leonard sighs and glances over his shoulder as best he can – considering that he’s still piloting a ship and would prefer if they didn’t crash it through a building – to glimpse Mick in the peripheral: arms crossed and eyes glowering at the steel paneling. “Over thirty years, we’ve been doing this, Mick.” Leonard continues, tone softer than usual, “I’ve always known where your head was at.  Known when I needed to keep you in check and when I could leave you be.  Known what you wanted most in this world and let you have it – occasionally with regrettable results.”</p>
<p>He hears Mick shift and wonders if the other man is touching one of the numerous places littered with burn scars. “But tonight…tonight was the first time I had no idea where your head was.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t matter.” Mick growls.  He’s deflecting.  It’s something they both excel at, “Lemme guess – Rip told you to take the dog out back and pop him off.”</p>
<p>“I don’t answer to Rip Hunter.” Leonard’s fingers tighten around the steel panel, taking care to not push a button by accident.  With their combined luck, it would be the notorious red button that blows the ship to hell.</p>
<p>“Sure about that?”</p>
<p>“Mick,” he bites out his partner’s name this time, “I’m getting tired of you throwing my decision to not leave you behind in twenty-forty-six back in my face.”</p>
<p>“And you think I didn’t get sick of you ripping my ass for not leaving Pretty Boy in Russia?”</p>
<p>Leonard grits his teeth, then pushes out a sigh.  The temptation to deflect, to keep throwing insult and injury back at his partner just to shield himself, is strong – and for once he shoves it away.  Can’t go down that rabbit hole.  Not right now. “What happened with the pirates, Mick?”</p>
<p>“Told you: doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>“Cut the crap and tell me.”</p>
<p>“What?  Suddenly you give a damn?” something breaks in Mick’s tone, anger running hot as the fire he so loves, and Leonard hears him get up from the seat, “Not sure why…I’m just the stupid tagalong, right?  The dumb muscle tagging after the brains.”</p>
<p>“I never said you were dumb.”</p>
<p>“No…Rip beat you to the punch on that one.”</p>
<p>Leonard’s response dies on his tongue.  He can’t even remember what he intended to say. “…What are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“Ah.  Didn’t mention that when he gave your marching orders, huh?” bitterness seeps into the anger, altogether turning into something ugly; something that makes Leonard openly cringe, “Can’t imagine why…would’ve thought he would be all about stroking your ego.  <em>You</em>’re the one he wanted, after all.  Just took me ‘cause we’re a package deal.”</p>
<p>Leonard opens his mouth – because, yes, he and Mick are a package deal and Rip knew that from the beginning so why is this—?</p>
<p>“Except he didn’t want the second half of this package.” Mick leans heavily into the wall, closer to Leonard’s peripheral this time, “Got no use for a serial arsonist with the IQ of meat.”</p>
<p>If this were a legitimate vehicle, Leonard would have slammed the brakes so hard they both would probably go bouncing around like a pinball game.  His foot, on reflex, does slam down into the floor – but there’s only steel paneling under his boot.  The real brakes, thankfully, are elsewhere. “He said <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>“Did I stutter?” he can feel Mick glaring at him, “Heard me just fine the first time, Snart.”</p>
<p> “<em>Stop</em> calling me that.” Leonard bites back and abandons better judgment in favor of turning to face his partner fully, “The IQ of meat…that’s what he called you?”</p>
<p>“Getting soft on my behalf?” Mick rolls his eyes with an audible snort, “Save it.”</p>
<p>“No, I will <em>not</em> save it.” It’s not his best or brightest move, but Leonard stands and lets the ship loiter on the equivalent of autopilot for a minute or two, “Look, Mick…be pissed at me all you want, but you know <em>damn</em> well I have never demanded you stay on a team that doesn’t respect you – or at least have the brains to keep their mouths shut otherwise.”</p>
<p>Dark eyes glare back at him, the anger and bitterness holding strong. “…You and I were a team.” He whispers, “What happened to <em>you</em>?”</p>
<p>The emphasis serves a purpose and fulfills it without question: Leonard is the guilty party, not Mick.  It isn’t as though they both didn’t get their share of derision and distrust – to be expected when you’re the known criminals amongst a bunch of hero-types – but things changed.  No.  Things didn’t change.  Leonard changed.  Changed to the point that his own partner doesn’t recognize him anymore.</p>
<p>“…I don’t know.” It’s a vulnerable answer, uncomfortable and stiff on the delivery, but honest.  Pitifully honest.</p>
<p>Mick nods stiffly, as if the answer comes as no surprise, and drops into another seat with a low grunt. “Had my share of protests when you shacked up with the kid,” he earns a glare for that word choice – breaking into Barry Allen’s apartment on a regular basis for various activities does <em>not</em> count as ‘shacking up’ with him, “but I’ll say this for Red: he never pretended you were anything but what you are.  Hell, by now, I’m pretty sure it’s just foreplay for you two idiots.”</p>
<p>“Oh, and you’re one to talk.” Two can play this game, and Leonard does not come out losing on any game, “All it takes is one glimpse of Snow in red and your jaw unhinges straight to the floor.”</p>
<p>“Says the guy who coped a feel on the Flash when we hit up the museum last month.”</p>
<p>Leonard rolls his eyes and drops back into the pilot’s seat to get going again.  Last thing he needs is for Rip to get wise and pull the Jumpship back before their destination has been reached.  He opts for silence because there’s no point denying that little incident – Barry was up in a tiff because Cisco had to be bribed to hack the security feed and delete all evidence – and he has absolutely no shame for what he did that night.  If Barry didn’t want Leonard to capitalize on the shameless opportunity that is his ass in red leather, he should tell Cisco to change the suit.</p>
<p>“I ask again – where the hell we goin’ now?” Mick grumbles, gripping the wall a little as the ship steadily pushes into full throttle.</p>
<p>“Shut up and sit down.” Leonard ignores the seething glare he earns for that quip.  It doesn’t matter: Mick will figure it out soon enough.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Home isn't always a place.  For Len and Mick, it involves a person.  Or, rather, two people.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Oh my gosh, you guys...the response to this piece already has been AMAZING!  I can't tell you how much it means to me.  Please enjoy chapter 2.</p>
<p>Also - Happy (early) Valentine's Day!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Central City: December 2016</em>
</p>
<p>They leave the Jumpship in a field, walk for a while, and steal the first car that catches attention: a dark sedan parked on the street curb with the keys in plain sight and doors unlocked.  Its owner probably just ran into the convenience store for a ‘quick minute’ and put his (or her) faith in the goodwill of mankind.</p>
<p>“Take the back streets.” Leonard tells Mick; he pulls out a burner and is pleased to see the device light up as though it’s never been off.</p>
<p>Mick doesn’t argue.  He doesn’t say much of anything as they take a leisurely drive along the longest possible route to their destination.  The silence is mildly aggravating and yet a welcomed reprieve while Leonard types out a small handful of messages.  About five minutes after he sends the final text, a responding message pops up on the screen:</p>
<p>
  <em>See you soon.</em>
</p>
<p>“Pull over here.” He breaks the silence and nods at a nearby gas station.  The place looks like it went out of service years ago. “We’ll walk the rest of the way.”</p>
<p>“Leave it to you to make a guy take a hike in the middle of the night, in this goddamn weather.” Mick slams the door with unnecessary force and hunkers deep into his coat. “Not all of us enjoy freezing our asses off.”</p>
<p>“It’s a couple of miles.” Leonard answers; even so, he zips the parka up over his leather jacket and jerks the hood in place. “We did worse in Chicago.”</p>
<p>“Twenty-o’five.” Mick grumbles, a vague hint of amusement curling at the back of his throat, “Snow deep enough to freeze a guy’s dick off.”</p>
<p>“And tonight, there isn’t a snowflake in sight.” That being said, the black-velvet sky bears a hazy grey sheen, barely visible from the ground, and a biting chill in the air which says snow may in fact be coming, “So quit complaining.”</p>
<p>“Yet.”</p>
<p>“…Yet.” Leonard concedes.  The city isn’t known for snow, but Mother Nature is the most unpredictable force of all.  Having a guy in the same city known to change the damn weather because he got an inspiration or was in a pissy mood doesn’t help.</p>
<p>They fall into silence for a time.  The old path takes them deeper into the woods, where the moon is barely visible through thick overhead brush.  Everything reeks of a cheap horror movie set.</p>
<p>“Remind me again why the hell we’re usin’ this place?” Mick finally asks; the earlier bite of anger is absent from his tone, which Leonard takes to mean the fresh air (and being back home) has done wonders for the man’s mood, “Haven’t touched it in years.”</p>
<p>“Precisely.” Leonard blinks against a sudden gust of icy wind, “Cops will find the car and return it, unscathed, to its owner.  They’ll think it was a couple kids out for a joyride and the owner might think twice about locking the door in the future.  No one will think to look further.”</p>
<p>“Tell me you at least keep the rent paid.” Mick mutters, half a joke, “Not walkin’ all this way to freeze the night ‘cause the damn heat’s turned off.”</p>
<p>“Have a little faith, Mick.” He feels the other man give him a look, but no response follows.</p>
<p>The safehouse is aptly named for its anonymity, but it bears no resemblance to the old warehouses and abandoned factory units which they converted to habitable residences over the years.  A modest two-story cabin, the original owners died years ago and the property was lost to the court records in the ensuing paperwork.  After ten years, Leonard is comfortable assuming no one is coming after the place for capital gain.  Even if they do, it would hardly be a loss on his part.  He and Mick found it by accident one night and rarely venture this direction to make repeated use.  If anything, it’s mostly domestic comfort: the furniture was virtually untouched, if considerably dusty, when they found the place and Mick immediately developed an unnatural fondness for the interior décor.  Namely, a collection of bear skin rugs and various animal pelts which proved the original owners were either avid hunters or just had strange hobbies.</p>
<p>Behind drawn curtains, the promise of light blossoms out in shades of gold.  Mick comes to an immediate stop, and Leonard feels a suspicious glare on his back while he reaches into the neglected garden patch and verifies the key is gone.</p>
<p>“Not really in the mood to entertain guests, Len.” Mick says, the hint of a growl at the back of his throat.</p>
<p>“Trust me.” Leonard answers, which makes Mick’s scowl deepen, and leads the way up the front steps.  However reluctantly, he can hear Mick’s heavy footsteps follow – likely, if for no other reason, than an inability to resist the promise of heat when the temperature has dropped about ten degrees in the last hour.</p>
<p>Inside, the heat hits them both – for Mick, with an audible sigh of relief – and they take a minute to linger in familiarity.  Then Mick shrugs out of his coat and boots, depositing both without much care on the floor.  Leonard uses the handsome walnut-carved coat stand for his parka, jacket, and then hangs Mick’s coat up in turn.  He leaves the gun in its holster on a small cabinet beside the door and motions for his partner to do the same.  Mick huffs but complies.</p>
<p>Around the corner, the room opens into a sprawling living area before narrowing into a couple small hallways – one to the bathroom and the other to a modest study which Leonard personally filled with ‘salvaged’ first-edition volumes of literature, a few antiques, and a small handful of original art pieces for the wall décor.  A fire crackles merrily in the stone hearth, and the sound of pacing footsteps can be heard at a distance.  Leonard allows a small curve of amusement to match his tone as he turns the corner, “Hi, Barry.”</p>
<p>The kid looks like he’s dropped a bit of weight since the last time they shared each other’s company: the black hoodie hangs a bit loose on his already-lanky frame.  But his smile is the same as he meets Leonard’s blue gaze across the room, “Hey, Len.”</p>
<p>“Glad you found the place.” Leonard takes a few easy steps closer, “And I see you’ve made yourself at home.”</p>
<p>“I’ll have you know it took two hours for this place to thaw out.” Barry smirks – and, yes, that smirk is still unlawfully attractive – then glances over Leonard’s shoulder to give Mick a nod, “Rory.”</p>
<p>“Hey, kid.” Mick grunts by way of greeting, “What’re you doin’ here?”</p>
<p>“Got Len’s message when I was wrapping up at work.” Barry elegantly avoids detailing which ‘job’ he was working tonight, “Grabbed a few things and we came over to wait for you guys.”</p>
<p>“We?”</p>
<p>No answer is strictly necessary to that question: Caitlin Snow appears in the hall leading to the study, looking quite fetching in holiday red, and relief sags her shoulders in one released breath.</p>
<p>“Mick…” she whispers, before closing the distance in record time.  Throwing arms around his broad shoulders, her hands find Mick’s face and touch like he’s a rare treasure unearthed from the sands of time before brushing her mouth to his.  The kiss, by their recorded standards, is actually quite tame.  Even so, Mick sighs as though salvation has come.  His shoulders sag, his frame suddenly looking very heavy, and he bends himself into her smaller shape: fingers tight in her sweater and head buried in the crook of her throat.</p>
<p>“Not sure they’re going to make it upstairs.” Leonard remarks, albeit softly.  Such displays of vulnerability are not for public viewing: Mick incidentally expressed that Caitlin was a safe place of sorts – even if Mick is still awkward with the notion that he can have any kind of safety outside the flame – but then glared at Leonard as if daring him to make jokes.  He never did, doesn’t exactly have the right to talk, but that only goes so far.  It won’t be long before Mick feels unwanted attention being paid and turns bristly.</p>
<p>From the front, fingers hook into the belt loops of Leonard’s denim and a pair of hazel eyes glitter in a way that his stomach performs a gentle flip.  The look in Barry’s eyes, the smirk on his young face, the humble scent of his soap…this is familiarity.  This is home.  As close to home as he, or Mick, ever really come.</p>
<p>“Probably not.” Barry answers; his fingers tighten in the belt loops and Leonard grips his shoulders in full awareness of what’s about to come, “But we will.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Muscle Memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Len, Barry, and what comes next.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His back hits the mattress at about twenty miles an hour and Barry is on top of him.</p>
<p>“Take your pants off.” The speedster says, voice thick with want, as he jerks his own clothing off with flattering urgency.   It heavily implies that the kid hasn’t touched or been touched since they last saw each other, and that little tidbit does wonders for Leonard’s ego.</p>
<p>Leonard folds his arms behind his head like this is a day at the beach and gives Barry a smirk just to rile him up a little more. “Do it yourself.”</p>
<p>Barry growls, a sound he will never make in polite company, and goes for the kill.  Clothes fly around the room like confetti at a birthday party.</p>
<p>“You destroy any of that, you’re paying for replacements.”</p>
<p>“You mean the replacements you already have in the closet?” Barry fires back.  It amuses Leonard to no end that the kid went exploring in the time he and Caitlin were waiting.  Figures he just can’t stand still for anything.</p>
<p>“I happen to be very fond of those jeans in particular.” He isn’t, ultimately could care less, but there are few enjoyments in this world to match poking the growling teddy bear currently straddling his waist.</p>
<p>“Are you going to be like this all night?” Barry mutters against his neck, where he’s working on a mark – naturally, much too high for clothing to conceal it in the morning.</p>
<p>“Are you?”</p>
<p>“It’s been <em>months</em>, Len.”	</p>
<p>Has it?  It somehow doesn’t seem that long…and still seems longer. “And have you been a good boy?” Leonard croons; one hand slides past the waist of Barry’s boxers for some bare skin contact, and the younger man shivers, “Have you been saving yourself for me, Barry?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” The syllable ends on a low whine and insistence on friction which, naturally, Leonard is holding hostage.  At least for the moment.</p>
<p>“Yes, you’ve been good for me?” he squeezes the supple flesh with a smirk, “Or yes, you’ve saved yourself?”</p>
<p>Barry lets out a most endearing little snarl of frustration, “Len!”</p>
<p>“Be a good boy and answer the question, Scarlet.”</p>
<p>The glare would be impressive if it weren’t for the present circumstances, including the press of Barry’s erection, hot and hard into Leonard’s thigh, demanding immediate attention. “No one has touched me.” he forces each word out like it’s being pulled with a crowbar, “You <em>know</em> no one has touched me, Len.  I don’t want them.” He bends forward and starts on another mark, right below the collarbone, “You know I don’t want them.”</p>
<p>“Say it.” He gropes the kid again, once more for good measure, then uses both hands to push the dark fabric away entirely, “Be good for me, Barry…you know what I want to hear.”</p>
<p>“…You.  Just want you…” Barry whimpers, shivering at the cool air on sensitive regions, and leans heavily, as if suddenly exhausted, into Leonard’s front for reasons he can guess but chooses not to dwell on too deeply.  Slim fingers trace the pattern of scars and black ink across skin.  The reverence isn’t new, by any means; it started from the first time they did this, riding high on adrenaline and long-ignored tension and the heat of an argument which was so stupid to begin with that neither can remember what the hell it was even about, and has never stopped.  Barry touches Leonard like he’s a work of priceless art, a rare jewel to be coveted but never sold off, and no protests against such a notion can make the kid stop.</p>
<p>What bothers Leonard, quite a bit, is that it feels new.  His body responds with the same surprised sensory shock as the first time.</p>
<p>Apparently, his current reaction has not gone missed.  Shouldn’t, really, with as close as they are. “Len?” Barry lifts his head, a frown creasing those painfully delicate features, “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>Leonard forces out a breath, very slowly, and brings both hands deep in dark brown strands.  Barry shivers again.  The kid’s entire body is one unending nerve that can be stimulated almost by anything, from Leonard’s hands in his hair to a few select and entirely accidental instances which were pocketed away for future reference.</p>
<p>“We’re going to do something different tonight.” He murmurs, and Barry lets out a precious little whine.  The word-choice probably has the kid envisioning headboards, opportunistic restraints, and drawn-out hours of tender touches and torturous gentility.  Which, naturally, they will do…another time.</p>
<p>He pulls Barry down for a kiss, slower and with greater intent than the reckless trade between mouths which had them stopping multiple times between the living room and the bedroom, Barry pinned hard to the wall at some points and the reverse at others.  The tenderness is mostly for Barry: a simple gesture which makes him look at Leonard like the world just narrowed to the two of them.</p>
<p>“I trust you came prepared?” he murmurs, kissing random places on the face, neck, and shoulders.  Barry offers a soft ‘mm hm’ in response, offering himself for additional contact in such a way that cements his assertion of no contact for the past months – and how many months has it actually been?  Leonard already doesn’t like this sudden inability to have a bare concept of time. “You’re going to need it.”</p>
<p>This part is rehearsed by now – or it should be, except when Barry retrieves the small bottle from his denim pocket and starts to roll off to assume the usual position, Leonard stops him. “On me, Barry.”</p>
<p>He makes a mental note, for another time, of how that simple phrase literally sparks fire in soft brown eyes. “I…” Barry licks his lips, clearly doing his best to keep it together when Leonard strongly suspects the kid wants to jump him, “…are you sure?  We’ve never done this before.”</p>
<p>Stating the obvious aside, the trepidation is…sweet.  Especially when his lithe figure is humming with excitement. “I’m sure.”</p>
<p>Barry nods, fingers quivering a little with excitement (Leonard isn’t entirely sure just how he feels about how much the kid obviously wants this), and pops the cap – but doesn’t start coating his fingers, yet. “…What are you thinking about?  And don’t feed me sugar.” He adds, before Leonard can do exactly that, “You can’t hide things from me.”</p>
<p>And to think, over a year ago before this all started, that would have been an outright lie.</p>
<p>“…Barry,” Leonard finally says after a lengthy pause, combing a hand through soft brown hair, “how long have Mick and I been gone?”</p>
<p>“A few months.”</p>
<p>“Exact time, Barry.”</p>
<p>“Five months, two weeks, three days.” Barry rattles off, not that he was counting or marked the calendar or kept a log or anything, “Why?”</p>
<p>Leonard kisses him again.  It bothers him that he experiences the same sense of novelty with a simple kiss as he does the feel of Barry’s hands on his skin. “Because it feels like years.  Like a lifetime.” Another kiss, more insistent this time, “I don’t remember things I <em>should</em> remember if it’s only been a few months.”</p>
<p>Barry stiffens and something dark pools in his eyes. “…did you forget me?” his voice is strained, probably because he’s holding back some kind of emotional response which has the potential to kill the mood, “Did you forget <em>us</em>?”</p>
<p>“I might have, eventually.” It’s a theory, no evidence to confirm or refute the idea, but the possibility alone is enough to earn a reaction which is equal parts unexpected and wholly flattering.</p>
<p>“No.” the possessive crackle is new.  Leonard is the possessive partner, the claiming one between them, but the way Barry now seems entirely devoted to touching, marking, or otherwise establishing himself on Leonard’s person certainly does nothing to dampen the gnawing hunger in his gut which started as soon as he walked in the door and saw Barry standing there, in Leonard’s world, like the most natural thing in the world. “No.  They can’t have you.”</p>
<p>Leonard groans softly in appreciation for both the words and the sudden press of Barry’s fingers – one hand into the soft groove of his left hip and the other (with unfair accuracy) against his prostate. “Thought you wanted me to be a hero, Scarlet?”</p>
<p>“What I wanted,” Barry whispers, hot and low into his throat, “was for you to see yourself as I see you.  Your brilliant mind.  Your cunning wit – stupid puns included.  The ruthless way you pursue what you want.  The way you protect what is yours – <em>who</em> is yours.  The way you can crack a safe from across the room and case a bank in under five minutes.  The way you look, sitting on the couch, cleaning the gun and then reassembling it like a work of art.  All of that, all of <em>you</em>…it’s a gift.  And if they couldn’t appreciate it, then they didn’t deserve it.”</p>
<p>“A little,” his breath hitches, just a bit, as Barry drags against him in a way that is unmistakably dirty and feels <em>so damn good</em> right now, “presumptuous, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Barry lifts an eyebrow in a familiar expression, the ‘who do you think you’re fooling?’ look that has been perfected a little too well over the last two years (even before they started sharing a bed on the daily), and carefully pushes himself in until their bodies are flush together, “If they had appreciated it,” he whispers, fingers caressing the shifting line of abdominal muscles as Leonard lets himself adjust – kid feels even bigger from this angle, despite how many times he’s been down Leonard’s throat, “you wouldn’t have come back.”</p>
<p>The argument against that is null and void and Leonard’s brain is much better devoted to reveling in the new sensations.  He’s explored Barry in ways which range from tender to scandalous, but the feeling of the reversal, of Barry being inside him, is dangerously close to a new high.  The kind of rush he can taste once and possibly spend the rest of his life addicted to.</p>
<p>“Mick got it worse.” He manages, sounding a little too breathless for his liking.</p>
<p>“Caitlin will take care of it.” Barry mumbles, between his mouth closing over random patches of skin to leave a splatter of developing love-bites and small bruises, “Just let me take care of you.”</p>
<p>Any words Leonard could have used, or thought to use, for his reply are entirely lost when Barry starts moving his hips.  If the simple act of feeling him inside was new, was enough to spark every nerve ending in his body, then the way Barry feels <em>moving</em> inside him is beyond description.  All sense of control is stripped, pulled, clawed away until he’s left in a place of vulnerability and exposure: everything he has fought against nearly his entire life.  Ever since his father beat life lessons into every inch of him.</p>
<p>“Len,” Barry’s voice feels distant, like an echo, “Len,” again, but a bit closer this time, and he feels the younger man’s mouth moving across his temple, “Len, open your eyes.  Look at me.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t even remember closing his eyes to begin with.  Barry stretches across the shared length of their bodies as much as possible without breaking the rhythmic thrusts of his hips.  Fingers trail the length of Leonard’s right arm and entwine their fingers at the headboard. “Stay with me.” Barry murmurs, their mouths brushing with each word, “Stay right here, with me.”</p>
<p>This isn’t how the night was supposed to go.  This wasn’t the plan.  This was about satisfying urges and addressing physical needs with something new.  Simple.  Clean.  Flawless execution.  Leonard isn’t supposed to be falling headfirst into a rabbit hole lined with the tangled web of emotion.</p>
<p>“Barry,” he loses the train of thought with another kiss, and another…and another.  The kid is NOT supposed to be this good at derailing his higher brain function.</p>
<p>“Don’t leave me again.” Their joined fingers tighten the hold. “This is your home…you said so yourself.”</p>
<p>Did he?  He remembers a conversation to that extent, in the way someone remembers a dream.  Not as a memory.  Not as a reality.  His throat tightens around the next breath.  What else did his time on the <em>Waverider</em> take from him?  What more would it have taken from him?  Would he have existed only in the present, without a future and a past he can’t even remember?</p>
<p>“I…” the words already taste foul before he says them out loud, “I don’t remember.” His throat contracts again, the onslaught of emotion like bile in his throat.</p>
<p>The responding silence sparks an instinct to retreat, withdraw, wrap himself back in protective layers of indifference and ice.  True to form, Barry doesn’t let him.</p>
<p>“I’ll help you remember.” He murmurs, kissing Leonard deeply; one hand molds around his thigh for more balance and a deeper angle that has Leonard seeing literal stars, “I promise.”</p>
<p>He would appreciate it if the kid would stop making promises he can’t keep, but saying as much is only taken as a challenge because Barry refuses to accept there is any problem he can’t ultimately solve if he thinks fast enough, moves fast enough, breaks through boundaries of logic and reality.  Nothing can penetrate that armor, that shield of damnable optimism.</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Leonard’s fingers lock around Barry’s, tight enough to raise bruises.  He wonders how long the marks will last.  Probably something else he knew once and now can’t remember.  Barry is moving with renewed urgency, breaths harsh and tight past the slight gap of his mouth.  The hand on Leonard’s thigh is raising marks.  Those, he knows, will last.</p>
<p>“Don’t stop.” Leonard hears himself, breathless and pleading, as his other arm winds tight around a length of lean muscle and pale skin; the hand settles between the flex of shoulders, and he feels a little spark of electricity from Barry’s skin to his own, “Barry, don’t stop.”</p>
<p>“You know I won’t.” Barry’s voice is right in his ear. “I never stop, Len…<em>we</em> never stop.” He kisses off-center at Leonard’s neck, then shoulder, “Never stop finding each other.  Never stop fighting each other.  Pushing each other back and forth to our limits.” He noses a path up from Leonard’s chin and lightly nips under his ear, “Speed and cold…naturally opposite forces made to co-exist.  Made to find each other…until the end of time.”</p>
<p>Dirty talk, in any capacity, isn’t Barry’s strong suit.  Even so, the words shove Leonard unceremoniously into his release, without warning and with a broken groan.  Barry chases his own with only a few more thrusts, the vibrations of his stimulated body sending shock waves through them both, until Leonard feels the hot throb fill him inside.  The simple intimacy pulls another sound from his throat, right before Barry wilts into his chest.</p>
<p>“Not bad for your first time, kid.” Leonard murmurs, both arms now tight around the speedster, and tucks a smirk in the dark hairline.</p>
<p>“Are you ever gonna stop calling me ‘kid’?” Barry mumbles, not that he sounds genuinely annoyed.  Rather, it sounds like the disgruntled mewl of a half-asleep kitten.</p>
<p>“Never.”</p>
<p>Barry offers a light huff of amusement and molds himself into the shape of Leonard’s body.  This position, oddly enough, might be the most familiar one of all.</p>
<p>“You leave me again,” Barry mumbles into Leonard’s shoulder, “and I’ll shoot you with your own gun.”</p>
<p>In spite of himself, Leonard feels himself grin and a light chuckle bubble out of his chest: a private display of genuine affection and humor that, yes, after waiting on him for five months…Barry probably has earned by now.</p>
<p>“Love you too, Scarlet.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Snowflake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>For Mick, home is found in the flame...and in <em>her</em> arms.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The whiskey is a familiar burn down his throat: warm and real.  Just enough to give him a light buzz, to leave his limbs feeling loose and relaxed, without the risk of passing out drunk in the chair.  The fire blazes hot, a masterpiece dancing and licking at the stone.  The bear skin is soft on his bare feet.  All together the comforts of home which he didn’t miss nearly as much as when he was stuck on a flying tin can from the future.</p>
<p>Slim fingers reach down and pluck the half-empty glass from his hand.  Mick blinks a couple times and lifts an amused expression. “Don’t remember you handlin’ your booze so good, Snowflake.”</p>
<p>Snowflake.  Another bit of familiarity which slides neatly into place.  Her pink mouth lifts in half a smirk before she tips the amber contents into her mouth and swallows.  Mick watches the way her throat contracts and huffs quietly.  She can make the dumbest bit of routine seem like foreplay.</p>
<p>“Not as well as I handle you.” She replies.  The fire dances off the soft red of her sweater, in the soft brown curls tumbling loose around her face.  His mouth suddenly feels very dry.</p>
<p>Her hands are just like he remembers: slender, dry from handling papers and snapping latex on the daily, and cool.  Not cold.  Just cool.  Contrary to the popular belief of idiots, his Snowflake isn’t made of ice.  She’s the base of a flame: startlingly blue and hot enough to scald skin from bone.</p>
<p>“What did they do to you?” she whispers, and he huffs again.  Woman’s a walking polygraph, pinpointing a lie or bullshit act from across the room.  One hand molds into the shape of his jaw; tips him up so there’s no other option but her eyes, “Mick, what did they <em>do</em> to you?”</p>
<p>The shorter answer would be what they <em>didn’t</em> do, but that’s toeing the line to self-pity.  Mick doesn’t do that shit.  He doesn’t feel good, feels like something or someone is gonna mess him up, he lights things on fire.  Simple.  Keep it simple.</p>
<p>The only hitch in that plan is things are both simple and complicated-as-hell between him and Caitlin.  Case in point, that first night.  The kiss wasn’t supposed to mean anything.  It was just supposed to be gold-plated example that he was an ungrateful ass on the best of days – planting one on her after she found his sorry ass on her doorstep, beat up good from a bar fight, and told him to get inside because he was bleeding on her rug.  She was supposed to hit him, maybe call him a pig, and throw him out to raise some more hell before the night was out.  Instead, he found himself tangled with her on the couch five minutes later, clothes on the floor and her mouth swollen red from kisses with too much teeth.  She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to get into the touchy-feely shit about tossing herself in bed with a guy like him, and that was just fine.  It was just good sex.  God-damn good sex that took the edge off even better than a bar brawl.  Simple.</p>
<p>It stopped being simple when it turned into a thing.  Long-term thing.  And not just to have a good lay.  Text messages.  Late-night phone calls.  Meeting up at the bar near her apartment where they talk about nothing and get drunk and hit up a taco truck and then pass out on her couch.  Or the floor.</p>
<p>“You’re not answering the question,” she murmurs, mouth hot on his ear, “and you’re thinking too much.”</p>
<p>“Huh.  There’s somethin’ I haven’t heard in a while.”</p>
<p>He both meant to say it and didn’t mean to say it.  Caitlin leans back, brown eyes reminding him of a fresh-cut diamond, and balances herself on the armrests. “What was that?”</p>
<p>The option to shrug her off is available but will end badly.  She isn’t above pulling the truth like a dentist pulls teeth. “Crew didn’t share your sparkling opinion of me.” he finally grunts in response, then takes the whiskey bottle and tips it down his throat.  More drinking.  Less feeling.  But apparently not without still talking. “All good though.  Good ego boost, being called ‘stupid’ in some fancy-ass language.  Hung out to dry in a Russian hell-hole.  Told I got the IQ of meat by the good captain.  Makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.”</p>
<p>Her fingers lock on the armrest.  Interestingly enough, at the same time, the fire snaps and pops a couple sparks against the grate. “They did that to you?  <em>Said</em> that to you?”</p>
<p>Again, he grunts, nods, and pours more whiskey down his throat.  More drinking.</p>
<p>“I knew it.” The growl is low in her throat, “I <em>knew</em> they didn’t deserve you.”</p>
<p>“Don’t talk like that, Snowflake.” Mick mutters, after another drink burns down his throat, “Stuff like that gets you in trouble.”</p>
<p>She grabs the bottle away and puts it to her mouth.  She never breaks eye contact with him while the booze is sliding down her throat.  Certain parts south of the equator are taking an interest now.</p>
<p>“Fine.” Caitlin puts the bottle back on the table, just far enough that he’d have to make an effort for it, “You don’t want me to talk?” there’s a very obvious challenge in her voice that makes his fingers twitch, just a little, “I won’t.”</p>
<p>She’s on her knees and pops the button on his jeans before he can think of any kind of good comeback.  His legs tense when the zipper hits bottom and her fingers jerk until the denim yields, “Snow—”</p>
<p>Her mouth presses hot through his boxers, the barest flick of her tongue just to get his blood pumping in the right location, and his fingers clench around the leather. “Shit.” He mutters.</p>
<p>She has him at full-mast with almost no effort, and even then she won’t give in to his demanding growls until she’s good and ready, the little minx.  Mick feels her smirk more than he sees it. “Snowflake,” he grits out, “it’s been god-damn <em>months</em>.”</p>
<p>Feels like years; feels like a hell lot longer than it’s actually been.  Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is he was on a tin can while she was down here with faceless jackasses ogling her sexy ass between here and the grocery store, and Mick had nothing but his hand and some free time at night.  Which, fine, yeah, he took advantage of (a lot) – but it’s not the real deal.  This – Caitlin on her knees with fire in her eyes and sin on her lips – is the goddamn genuine article.</p>
<p>“No kidding.” She pops back, cocky little tilt to her head that makes him want to just wreck her on the spot. “Glad you reminded me, Mick…I almost forgot.”</p>
<p>He has a perfectly impolite response at the ready, and then she jerks his jeans down – like, off and thrown to some random corner of the room – before giving his boxers the same treatment.  Being suddenly bare-assed on the leather is a new experience, which he might dwell on if it weren’t for her mouth taking him out of the cold.</p>
<p>“Fuck…” he lets his thighs fall open, because he’s past the point of caring, and drops his head back.  Her hand – the other one, not the one she currently wrapped around his thigh – ventures to his hip, exploring the old scar tissue with fingertips.  It isn’t meant to compare with her mouth on him, he knows, but rather because she likes touching him there.  Everywhere he has scar tissue from the fire, she likes to touch.  He’s teased her about having some kinky fix, only to be reminded that he isn’t exactly complaining when she does it.  Hell, she’s made him come like a fifteen-year-old screwing around in a pickup truck, just from touching him there.</p>
<p>Fine.  So maybe they’re both into kinky shit or they’ve both got wires crossed in the attic.  Whatever.</p>
<p>He won’t let her finish him.  Not this way.  He pushes at her shoulder, a little more roughly than intended, and she gives him a half-hearted glare before leaning back on her heels and wiping her mouth with a finger.  Inspired, he pulls her back and licks his way in to taste himself.  She nips his mouth.  Her hands scratch and claw at his shirt until it’s up-and-over his head, then pitch it across the room.</p>
<p>“Ease up, baby.” He smirks, “That one almost hit the grate.”</p>
<p>“You have back-ups here.” Caitlin answers, apparently missing the point that the house could’ve burned down…or she just doesn’t care.  He personally likes the second option.</p>
<p>She stands up, pulling her heat from him, and he growls, “Where you think you’re goin’?”</p>
<p>“Thought you would prefer this view.” She murmurs, and his mouth goes dry as she pulls the sweater overhead.  The dark-wash denim is next, and now he’s left staring at red lace.  Red.  Lace.</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ…” Mick growls; nearly launching himself out of the chair, he pins her flat to a bear skin floor and gets a proper view of her washed in firelight, “You better have changed when Len texted you and the kid.”</p>
<p>“And if I didn’t?” her eyebrow cocks with that confident swagger that makes her a pain in the ass and a wildcard in the sheets, “If I said I’ve been wearing this set, and others like it,” (<em>Others like it???</em>) “for the last few months because I like how it feels on my skin?  That the red reminded me of you?  Made me feel close to you, even when you were chasing adventure across time and space with a crew that didn’t value you…didn’t see your rage, your passion, and be in awe of it?”</p>
<p>He needs another drink.  His mouth is way too dry.</p>
<p>“Oh, my dragon…” she breathes, pale hands running up his arms and loitering on the scar tissue, “They never deserved you.”</p>
<p>A full-body shiver runs through him. “…dragons burn cities to the ground, baby.  They don’t get the girl.”  They don’t get happy endings.  They don’t get the long-term fairytale deal – just short-term flings that end because someone says something and then every problem you ever had up to that point comes out like a tangle of barbed wire and rips everything to shreds.</p>
<p>Even so, it pisses him off just to think about this – whatever the hell he and Caitlin have been doing for almost a year – blowing up and burning to the ground.</p>
<p>Her fingers catch his chin and stroke the stubble which reminds Mick that he’s overdue for a shave. “They guard their treasure.” Caitlin murmurs, “And you told me, before you left, that I was your treasure.  Best thing you ever stole.”</p>
<p>He was half-drunk when he said it, but he can’t say he didn’t mean it. “Caitlin…” her name tastes good.  Sounds even better.</p>
<p>“You’re home now,” she smiles as he pulls the lace from her hips, drags it down the creamy slope of both legs, and pitches it over his shoulder; her thighs fall open and he takes the invitation for exactly what it is, “and I’m going to take care of you.”</p>
<p>Mick hasn’t been taken care of, in any capacity, for years.  Can’t even remember the last time that was a thing.  He almost tells her so, almost, and then both hands pull him to her mouth and his brain short-circuits.  She still tastes a little like him, but mostly she tastes like whiskey and mint.  Her fingers roam free over the scars (again), mapping out like a bank blueprint, and there’s way too much <em>feeling</em> going on here that he can’t deal with and doesn’t want to shut off.</p>
<p>“Almost…almost forgot.” He mumbles against her shoulder, “Forgot how you feel.  How you taste.  Way you say my name.  Forgetting more, day by day.  Might’ve forgotten it all.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t let you go.” She whispers, “You know I won’t let you go that easily.”</p>
<p>Something tightens inside, almost the kind of response one gets after someone just socked you in the gut. “…Caitlin…” her hands pull him in, guide him inside, and he chokes on nothing to feel her around him, “…fuck.  Snowflake.  Baby…”</p>
<p>“I’m here, Mick.” Her mouth is dry and soft on his neck, “I’m right here.  My dragon.  My raging inferno.  Mine.”</p>
<p>“…Yours.” It’s a funny thing, to be claimed.  Feels even weirder when you put the collar on yourself. “I’m yours, baby,” in the back of his head, there’s still a voice that sounds too much like his old man, telling him that this is going to crash and burn and it will be all Mick’s fault when it does because the only thing he’s ever been good for is setting shit on fire and burning it to the ground and this girl is too good, too pure, too fragile for him and – above all – Mick doesn’t deserve nice things and can only steal them even when he can’t keep them, “…All yours, if you want me.”</p>
<p>“Can’t you feel it?” and, oh yes, he can feel it…doesn’t ever want to stop feeling it, and it feels real and good and <em>fuck</em>, no, he doesn’t want to lose this – he <em>can’t</em> lose this, “Can you feel how much I want you?”</p>
<p>She’s slick and hot and tight and doesn’t let him go anymore than he wants to pull away.  He stares, watches without blinking, as her body moves pale and flushed pink against the dark fur backdrop.  Bear skin rugs aren’t supposed to be sexy, but right now she’s writhing under him with hair a glorious mess and her mouth red and parted and gasping and she’s moaning like a goddamn porn star and he's ready to stockpile furs just to replicate the experience.</p>
<p>Hazy and blown dark, her eyes open, stare at him for a minute like she’s planning something, and then both hands drag him back to her mouth – red and swollen and wet.  Every time she kisses him, it feels like redemption.  Like something good and permanent that some pyro nut with a rap sheet as long as the Amazon river doesn’t get to have, not forever.</p>
<p>Mick has the unfortunate suspicion that he might not have as good a poker face as he thought, because Caitlin kisses him like she knows what he’s thinking, has no patience for it, and is making it her life’s goal to literally suck those thoughts right out of his head.  Worse yet…she’s doing a damn fine job of it.</p>
<p>“I love you, Mick Rory.” She whispers, soft in his ear like a world-class secret, “You know I love you.”</p>
<p>The air is punched clean out of his lungs in a loud, uneasy groan.  His face drops into the damp hollow of her throat, breathing in her scent and licking sweat from pale skin, while her hands lift and begin caressing his head and a small place at the back of his neck that lights him up like a Christmas tree.  Her mouth smears a kiss across his brow, tender and nothing he deserves, as again she whispers, “I <em>love</em> you.”</p>
<p>He refuses to acknowledge the possibility that he might – <em>might</em> – be crying: silent tears rolling down his cheeks and pooling across her skin without a single sob to betray him.  Still, the dampness at his cheeks can’t be attributed to sweat anymore than the salty taste along the side of his mouth can be.  He knows Caitlin has to feel it, knows exactly what it is dripping off his face into her throat, and he’s never been more grateful for silence than he is in this moment.</p>
<p>Mick Rory doesn’t cry.  Except when he does.</p>
<p>“Snow…” his hands tighten to the point of raising bruises on her hips, “Don’t.  Don’t do this to yourself.”</p>
<p>She drags his face back to hers – which is entirely unfair, because how the hell is he supposed to put up any kind of defense against those big brown eyes?  Jesus Christ.</p>
<p>“It’s my life.” Caitlin whispers, no louder than the crackle of dying flames in the hearth, and pushes until he’s rolled flat to the bear skin with her legs slung across his waist and the flames painting her naked skin something out of a late-night fantasy, “My heart.  You have it, Mick.  What you choose to do with it is your call.”</p>
<p>Christ…this woman plays a dirtier game than he does – throwing that in his face when he’s balls deep and she’s riding him like she was born for his cock.  What he chooses to do with her heart?  The hell else is he gonna do?  He’s a thief.  A criminal.  Never gonna be the brains of the outfit, but that’s never stopped him from taking what he wants, when he wants it.  And goddamn if he doesn’t want this woman and everyone who says he can’t have her can go fuck themselves.</p>
<p>Never big on words but always one for some good action, Mick surges up, almost knocking Caitlin off-balance in the process, and wraps one arm tight around her waist while the other drags up the front and cups her breast in a palm.  The lace rasps nicely against his skin and does nothing to hide her response to his touch.</p>
<p>“You always did like having your tits played with.” Mick smirks in her neck; the tears are dried and he doesn’t have to worry about blubbering like an idiot anymore.  This is territory he’s familiar with – where he calls the shots as much as she does.</p>
<p>“Which you found out,” Caitlin scratches under his left shoulder, “because you put your hand up my blouse while shoving your tongue down my throat.”</p>
<p>“That when I stole your heart?” he gropes her at the same time as he grinds up and – judging from the way she ducks her head and softly bites his shoulder – hit a couple of nerves in all the right ways, “Or just your V-card?”</p>
<p>She hauls him back to her mouth, licking inside until his head swims from a lack of oxygen, “Not sure.” Her hands shove him back onto the rug while she rides him halfway to the land of don’t-give-a-flying-fuck, “Maybe I’ll figure it out one day…so I guess you’ll just have to stick around, won’t you?”</p>
<p>Any response he could give – and he had a few good ones, too – drop off the radar in favor of choice words and low grunts that sort of sound like her name.  Caitlin.  Snowflake.  His.  <em>His</em>.</p>
<p>Mick is never quiet when he comes, but he was extra loud on this one.  Len will probably give him shit for it in the morning – just because he and the kid are all dainty when coming up each other’s asses.  Caitlin doesn’t mind, and on a good few occasions hasn’t been much better herself.  Woke up the neighbors one night after Mick got his face between her legs and made her scream.</p>
<p>She doesn’t scream tonight, but that’s fine.  He’s got all the time in the world to fix that.  For now, he catches her mid-wilt, scoops her fully into his arms, and stretches out along the skins.  The fire is low and he makes a couple quick jabs with the poker to start things up again.  It’s the little pleasures, after all: a good fire, a really good fuck, and this goddess – <em>his</em> goddess – draped across his lap with fingers petting his chest at random and her mouth peppering kisses across one shoulder.</p>
<p>“Snowflake?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?”</p>
<p>“…Missed you.”</p>
<p>He can’t say the rest of it, not yet.  One of these days, maybe, but not today.  Not tonight.  And the smile he feels against his neck says that’s okay.  Good enough for now.</p>
<p>“Welcome home, Mick.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>That wraps this one up, everyone!  Thank you again, SO MUCH, for the response to this story.  The next time I post on Archive, it will be from my new home!  Looking forward to sharing more stories in 2021 with you all very soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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